The Pearls Within The Sands of Time
by WikedFae
Summary: Each brush stroke a blessing, each glance a gem in the cold of an artists' paradise. The unspoken thoughts that filled moments of two souls living in a world of color. Series of snippets.
1. Moment: Bristles of a Brush

**The Pearls Within the Sands of Time** by WikedFae

Summary: Each brush stroke a blessing, each glance a gem in the cold of an artists' paradise. The unspoken thoughts that filled moments of two souls living in a world of color.

Disclaimer: The only thing I can claim rights to is the collection of snippets you are about to read. No more, no less.

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**Moment:** _Bristles of a Brush_

The _swish_ of the brush was entrancing, intoxicating, as it drowned in the sound her breath. Even beyond the door, Griet could feel the rasp of the bristles against the canvas slip down her throat to nestle in her bosom, hypnotizing her entire being, holding her captive in that dim, narrow corridor. She daren't move for fear of interfering, but whether she stayed still to leave him his concentration or to stave off her inevitable return to a bleak and barren task, she could not discern. For now, it was enough to listen to the music of his creativity, subtle and whispered as it was. So she stood eavesdropping on the discourse with his muse, transfixed with her hands wrapped around the handle of her own brush…well, broom. Somehow, though, the handle she clung to was not so different than the handle he cradled in his grasp. True, he made his brush sing as its toe slid resolutely across its canvas landscape, leaving behind a trail of oil-based beauty; she could not boast of having the same talent. Her broom's voice was rough and abrasive, its movements halting and brusque. It still moved with purpose under her stern and determined hands, but the brush she directed would always be wiping away the ashes of life, doomed to forever wander the same paths as the beauty of creation disappeared under the dust of abandonment and disuse. His hands would never subject his tool of interpretation to the same monotonous streaks—his brush would be the designer of worlds more beautiful than she had ever dared to dream. And all because of the gentle, guiding hands of one silent architect.

_...swish…swish…swish…swi—_

A soft clatter emanated from behind the door followed by a scraping sound. His work was done for the day then. The _rustle_ of cloth, the _creak_ of floorboards, the _clack_ of window shutter latches, and the _gurgle_ of brushes swirling through liquid, shedding their colored mantles for the evening all heralded his departure. Her heart ached to hear more but fear of discovery drove her to quietly steal from the hallway and disappear into the shadows of the heavy drapery lining the landing. The cold bite of approaching winter had crept into the house, the gleam of the waning sun strained to shine in the early evening sky, and soon the door opened. Warm candlelight preceded him as he emerged from the studio, the light dancing in his eyes. Watching him carefully descend the stairs, she sighed…his manner and quiet disposition left her with insatiable curiosity in all respects save one: she knew with certainty she would always be the moth and he the flame. His footsteps echoed down below until fading into silence and she could draw breath once more. Inching towards the banister, she strained to hear the vanishing whispers of his presence. Somewhere in the house a door closed; Griet's eyes slid shut as the puff of wind rushed up the stairwell. It carried with it the cloying scent of wine skin tempered by the muted aroma of linseed oil and for a moment, it was as if he'd never left. Moving back towards the door, she rested her forehead on the aging wood; with the haze of smells tingling in her nose and her figure held in the embrace of dusk, she knew kinship. The silent brush strokes danced on behind the door, their steps carrying on into eternity, she was sure. And there, so close to creation's haven, she cradled her broom gently in her hands and swept until no speck of dust remained, as was befitting of a master.


	2. Instance: Mortar and Pestle

**The Pearls Within the Sands of Time** by WikedFae

Summary: Each brush stroke a blessing, each glance a gem in the cold of an artists' paradise. The unspoken thoughts that filled moments of two souls living in a world of color.

Disclaimer: The only thing I can claim rights to is the collection of snippets you are about to read. No more, no less.

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**Instance**: _Mortar and Pestle_

The muller's gravelly tones whispered throughout the small attic as he watched her force its weight down upon the ebony shards littering the cluttered slab. Her fingers were streaked with black, the sooty powder clashing violently with her natural pallor and intensifying the angry blisters that peppered the backs of her hands. Wearily, she reached up and straightened her collar leaving a dusting of grey speckles behind before her hands and attention sank back to her task. He looked down at his own hands, the skin unblemished save the splashes of malachite near the fingertips as swells of stained linseed oil flowed out from beneath the pointed trowel. The occasional callous scarred his palms and the skin of his right thumb had roughened from years of supporting wooden handles, but the damage was nowhere as severe as those reddened cracks sprawling across her knuckles. Glancing at her with hooded eyes though, the determination shining from her pale brown orbs told him she did not mind. This startled him for it glimmered like a blazing beacon from the murky depths of a resigned lower caste. She was unique, an enigma only serving to distract him. But for all the distraction she provided, he realized her mystery sparked all manner of inspiration within him.

He did not care to examine his muse's whispers too closely lest they dissipate in silence, but as he gazed upon her bent figure with her worn hands clutching the smooth stone, he felt reassured this artistic chase would not end with his departure in the evening. The next dawn would break in through the frosted windows of his studio and he would steal away to the attic before the rest of the household woke. Her wide eyes would greet him, brimming with veiled, frightened anticipation and, unbeknownst to her, he would gratefully tumble into the chasm of questions she offered. It would be too easy to keep falling though, and he abruptly turned his thoughts back to the present.

Steadily, he rose and abandoned the green-streaked trowel, crossing to the workbench to retrieve his mortar and pestle. The slight slowing of her muller's tempo was hardly noticeable as he approached; a sidelong glance in her direction however, revealed her wandering attention as her eyes keenly pursued his hands and the instruments now cradled in them. Retreating to his seat, a twitch of his lips fought its way to the surface as he remained under the intense scrutiny of her gaze. It was curious how her silent observations spoke to him, he realized as a chorus of joy and sadness resonated within him. Her eagerness was evident and was made all the more painful as it churned forth from beneath the masking layers of subservience she valiantly tried to wear. Perhaps it was out of pity, or respect, or merely due to the balm her curiosity was on his starved creativity, but he would teach her—against his better judgment and in defiance of stark boundaries. She would not be ignored, as precious as she was.

He watched the small lumps of ore break beneath the merciless onslaught of his pestle, a fine cloud of cinnabar powder settling into the grooves and hollows of the mortar. A draft of silence swept through the cramped room and he paused, risking yet another glance in her direction. Pale eyes drank all color from the room as her gaze bored into him, stealing even his breath as he watched her mind quench its thirst. The flame had ignited those orbs once again and he saw the new path before him. Her unspoken pleas to learn would no longer go unanswered and he slowly raised his cradled hands, humbly offering the mortar nestled within. Only when her startled expression had faded into one of unsure gratitude did a minute smile grace his lips.


End file.
